


A Ghost's Love Story

by Gabrielgirl



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Leroux, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabrielgirl/pseuds/Gabrielgirl
Summary: After an evening of ghost stories, Christine asks her Angel of Music - is there really an Opera Ghost?
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 79
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

Christine jerked open the door to her dressing room with trembling hands before fumbling in the darkness for her gaslight.

Her senses were heightened in her nervous state. The thud of her heartbeat, the hiss of her breath...she could even hear the accusing tick of her clock from across the room. She was late...she must be!

A tiny jet of flame quivered weakly in the glass globe of the lamp. Each flutter sent shadows dancing across the knotted wood walls, their leering shapes towering over the pale, wide eyed girl.

Christine shivered. In her tiny, abandoned dressing room, they were even worse than the darkness.

"You were very nearly late, child," said a gentle voice.

"Angel!" She stammered. " Oh, angel... _forgive_ me..."

An indulgent chuckle echoed through the room.

"There is naught to forgive, child...I said _nearly_ , not _were_. There is a vital difference, you know."

The gaslight had ceased guttering and now burned bright and steady. The shadows faded, and Christine felt her breathing begin to relax.

"And yet," continued the voice, "it is unlike you, Christine. How could you lose track of the time, my darling? Do you wish for your angel to worry about you?"

His tone was light, but an edge of suspicion had sharpened his normally sweet voice.

"Well?"

Christine chewed her lip.

"I am sorry, angel," she said at last. "I have no good reason, I know. But rehearsal had finished, and it was _so_ cold, and everyone else seemed to be gathering there..."

"Gathering where?" he asked quietly.

"Erm. The main prop room, the one across from the ballet changing halls. One of the stage hands had built a fire, and...I think everyone just wanted to warm up. Anyway, that's how things got started..."

"What... _things_ , exactly?"

"They were telling stories," she whispered, her eyes fluttering to the floor.

"Stories?" said the voice.

"Yes."

The angel heaved an exaggerated sigh and laughed softly.

"I know how fond you are of stories, Christine," he said, with obvious affection.

A blush formed over her cheeks.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Oh...yes," she said quietly.

There was a slight pause.

"You are not convincing me, my dear. Your expression is troubled! Are you cold? Or perhaps," said the voice slowly, "you are afraid?"

Christine inhaled quickly, her eyes snapping up to the great floor length mirror that lined the far wall.

"I - I could _never_ be afraid when you are near, angel!"

"You are lying, my dear."

The simple statement made Christine wince. She stared at her guilty expression in the mirror, and the obvious fear in her eyes.

"I...perhaps I am bit nervous," she said. 

"What is it that frightens my Christine?" the voice murmured softly.

She trembled. She was not sure why.

"The truth," she said slowly, "the truth is that they were telling, well...ghost stories."

"Ghost stories!"

"Yes...I...oh, that's _wrong_ , isn't it? I know I'm supposed to avoid earthly distractions, but I was...feeling a bit lonesome, I suppose." Christine sighed. "It's rather stupid to keep an angel waiting in order to hear a ghost story, isn't it?"

A merry laugh filled the room; the warm, rich tones caressed Christine like a warm bath. She smiled in earnest; she sometimes felt it was worth anything to hear him laugh.

"Do you think me very foolish?" she asked, her blush deepening.

"Only very endearing," said the voice. "After all, what could be more natural than to linger over a ghost story on a cold autumn night?"

Christine blinked in surprise.

"I had forgotten about the cold! I was _freezing_ earlier...but I'm not, now." She shrugged. "I suppose I just forget when I am with you."

Christine could never imagine the pleasure this simple statement brought to her angel.

"It is the gift of the blessed, my darling," he said softly. "When one's sole focus is heaven's ecstasy, earthly pain recedes. Still," he continued, "you must always practice vigilance. It would not do to ignore the chill of winter only to discover yourself with a cold."

"Yes, angel. I will do as you say."

For awhile there was silence while Christine pondered these spiritual truths.

Yet a sudden creak of wood from outside her door sent Christine flying from her chair with a gasp.

" _Angel!_ Oh, angel, please, _save me!"_

 _"Christine!"_ he cried. "My darling, whatever is the _matter?"_

For she was kneeling by the long floor length mirror, her breath coming fast, her face twisted against the tears gathering in her eyes.

"Oh angel," she whispered. "I'm a fool, I _know_ I'm a fool...but I'm so frightened."

"By that little creak of wood?" said the voice soothingly. "It was only the boards shifting in the cold...there is no need to be afraid, little one!"

She leaned back against the mirror, fiercely wiping the wet from her eyes.

"I know, I know," she said. "I'm letting my imagination get the better of me. Papa used to say it was my greatest curse...I could convince myself that any little noise was a witch or a goblin. But angel, I really am afraid."

"Of what?"

_"Of the ghost!"_

For a moment, the silence hung heavy.

"What ghost, Christine?" the voice whispered.

"The Opera Ghost!" she said shrilly. " _He_ was the one all of the stories were about tonight! How he haunts the corridors...or threatens the staff...even the managers are afraid of him, though they never say it. And Buquet!" she gasped. "Buquet has actually _seen_ him! He told us _all_ about the ghost...that he is a skeleton, a simple skeleton covered over with evening clothes. His head...his head is a death's head, a bald, rotting death's head!"

A bark of tense laughter escaped her lips. "Buquet said he had no nose, you know...just a horrible hole in the middle of his face. Or eyes! Dead, empty sockets where his eyes should be...oh, I can't bear to imagine it!"

"Hmph," said the voice coldly. "The last I heard, his eyes were yellow and glowed in the dark."

"Well, yes, little Jammes said something of...wait..." Christine held her breath, and her eyes widened with surprise.

 _"You_ know of the Opera Ghost, angel?"

"Of course," he said tersely. "Does it surprise you that I know something of the goings on of the Opera?"

Christine buried her face in her hands.

"Forgive me...I don't seem to be doing _anything_ right tonight. Of course you would know. You're an angel....you know _everything_..."

"Hush child," he said. "Do not blaspheme! True omniscience, after all, is known only to God. Still," he said, "I do possess a certain power of...penetration, you know. In some areas more than others."

Christine frowned in confusion. "Like music?"

"...Yes. Like music."

She nodded and wrapped her arms around her knees.

"Tell me truly, child," said the voice with infinite tenderness. "Have the stories of the Opera Ghost...upset you?"

"They have," she said quietly. "I'm not a brave person by nature, and there has been such mischief recently. Props and scores have gone missing, and of course the backdrops have fallen more than once. There has even," she whispered, "been talk of notes. Notes that appear on their own in locked rooms, full of threats and malice, and written in... _blood."_ She shivered, and suddenly Christine felt that she could take it no more.

"Angel! Angel, does the Opera Ghost exist?"

Her question hung heavy on the air for a long time.

"My darling," he said, "My precious, precious darling...I wish I could lie. I wish I could say to you...of course there is no ghost! It pains me to see you so afraid."

"But?" asked Christine.

"But," he sighed. "Yes, dear one. Yes. The Opera Ghost _does_ exist."

She trembled and muttered an unconscious prayer.

"I am sorry if this frightens you, Christine," said the voice. "It needn't, you know...the Opera Ghost would _never_ do you harm."

"But - but angel! The things they were saying about him tonight...that he guards the cellars, and kills anyone who enters! Little Giry even said that he was a _warlock_ when he was alive...that he died trying to conjure demons from the lake, and now seeks the blood of the living to build a new body!"

"Oh, for - Christine! Are you truly going to believe such a ridiculous story?"

"I - "

"Sceneshifters! Ballet rats! What do they know? What do _any_ of them know? Those ignorant fools!"

"Er, angel?" asked Christine softly. "Angel, do you mean...those stories aren't true?"

"Of _course_ not," he hissed.

Christine breathed a faint sigh of relief, but her mind still spun with confusion.

"If the Opera Ghost wasn't a warlock killed by demons," she said slowly, "why is he so frightening? Why does he torment the Opera so?" She swallowed hard. "What..what happened to him, exactly?"

"You wish to know the truth?" asked the angel. He spoke calmly, deliberately - bordering on formal. Yet Christine was not deaf to the weariness and...was that sorrow? That tinged his voice.

"Does that...bother you, angel?"

"No," he sighed. "No. It is better this way. I...cannot bear the thought of you thinking ill of the Opera Ghost. His story is tragic, but it is very simple."

An instinctive shiver traced down the back of Christine's neck as she felt the voice whisper in her ear.

"The Opera Ghost was buried alive."


	2. Chapter 2

"Our story begins nearly thirty years ago, when Monsieur Garnier first began construction of the opera house. His dream of a palace of marble and gold, a temple to music and beauty, was almost instantly dashed with the discovery of groundwater under the building site.

"Patrons and investors alike grumbled about this turn of events: either the site of the opera house would have to be moved, or the building would have to be drastically scaled down in order to stand on the pitifully shallow foundation.

"Garnier, however, wouldn't allow it. He refused to move or to change the plans for any man. Luckily, he held an ace up his sleeve - he had the Gentleman."

Christine cocked her head. "The Gentleman?"

"The Gentleman," said the voice. "His true name was never known, though it was rumored that he was the illegitimate son of a Carpathian prince. What _was_ known, however, was that he was a brilliant architect, craftsman, and great lover of opera.

"Garnier and the Gentleman spent many frantic days and sleepless nights plotting a solution. At last, the Gentleman, in a flash of light, was struck with inspiration - the opera house would have _two_ foundations. The groundwater would be pooled together in a handcrafted lake between the two layers, and the opera house would stand until the end of time.

"When the time came to begin construction on the underground lake, the Gentleman became a constant presence at the building site. No little detail was overlooked - to the annoyance of some, to the amusement of others. Certainly he was an odd figure, tall and thin, dressed in the fine clothes of fashionable society, yet kneeling in the dirt with mortar plastered on his trousers as he patiently assisted with any little task. However, with his insight, intelligence, and sharp, ready wit, he soon gained the respect and friendship of many of the workers. In fact, the Gentleman struck up a very particular friendship with the head mason: they respected each other as true craftsman, and they often worked side by side, carefully laying the brickwork that would hold the water in place. The Gentleman had never been happier: a stroke of architectural genius, all for the glory of his beloved opera.

"All seemed to be going well - until tragedy struck."

Christine lifted her head, the dreamy expression fading from her eyes. "Tragedy?"

"The worst possible kind."

"What is that?" she whispered.

"He fell in love."

_"What?"_

"He fell in love. The mason, you see, had a beautiful daughter. Curling gold hair, skin like the finest porcelain, a smile to break a thousand hearts." The voice clicked his tongue. "She was also, unfortunately, an empty headed little simpleton, but mortal men don't always stop to consider these things."

"Did she love him back?"

"Ah. Well, the Gentleman was, of course, very charming and well to do. He was also very respected by her father. However, she was also being courted by her father's apprentice.

"The apprentice was a fine young chap. He had a handsome face, with thick blond hair and strong shoulders. He also held a promising future, being the heir apparent to her father's lucrative masonry business. Since he was being groomed as the mason's successor, he seemed the obvious choice for a husband. However, the girl was attracted to the Gentleman's higher status, and his presence as a somewhat notorious figure in fashionable society."

Christine frowned.

"But...but who did she love? One cannot make such a decision without love!"

The voice laughed dryly.

"My dear, dear Christine...this is precisely why you belong apart from this dirty, materialistic earthly coil. You value love, honestly and truly, when others would only use it as a tool for corruption. Your feelings do you honor."

Christine blushed heavily, and she hid her smile behind her hands.

The voice suddenly cleared his throat.

"To resume our story...the mason's daughter was finding her choice of suitors difficult. The devoted, stable, and traditional choice of the apprentice; or the slightly scandalous but more fashionable choice of the Gentleman. The apprentice would pick her flowers from the public gardens; the Gentleman would create clever trinket boxes from copper and brass. The apprentice would take her for walks along the building site; the Gentleman would hire a carriage for a tour of the Bois de Vincennes. It was exceedingly apparent to everyone involved that the Gentleman would win."

"The poor apprentice," whispered Christine.

"Hold your pity, Christine...we have not yet finished the tale."

...

"The apprentice was no fool, and he could see that his youth, good looks, and devotion were no match for the status and elegance of the Gentleman. He burned with jealously, hatred sizzling in his veins, until it finally poisoned his mind and his soul...and he planned for the murder of his rival."

Christine gasped. "No!"

"Oh, yes, my dear. It was a simple plan, really...he filched a handful of the daughter's perfumed writing paper, and, by carefully copying her handwriting from her previous love notes to him, he set his trap for the Gentleman. In the letter, the mason's daughter appeared to confess her feelings: I love you! I have always loved you! I shall not be happy until I'm laying in your arms...we must elope! Well, you can imagine the Gentleman's feelings - he was ecstatic! His lady love, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, had agreed to be his bride!

"The note laid out all of the details: she would meet the Gentleman at the construction site at the stroke of midnight."

Christine's eyes were wide, her shoulders trembling. She was completely and utterly engrossed.

"The Gentleman was there at midnight. He waited patiently by the wall, delirious with joy in anticipation of his bride. Already he was planning their honeymoon - the Riviera? Perhaps Italy? He was lost in his happy day dreams...and that is what killed him."

"No!"

"Oh, yes. He was a clever man...had he been in full possession of his faculties, he should easily have heard the clodding footsteps of the apprentice. Yet, he was not. The apprentice approached from behind, step by step, the heavy thud of his workboots muffled in the dirt, until..."

Christine's mouth was open, her breath held in anticipation...

"Until the rope had been pulled tight across his neck."

Christine gasped.

"Yes...the apprentice had drawn a length of rope around the Gentleman's neck. The Gentleman struggled viciously, clawing at the cord circling his throat, but it was already too late! He was no match for the apprentice in sheer strength. He became light headed, his vision growing blurry and black, until in a final fit of suffocation he collapsed."

Christine was breathing heavily, her hands delicately trailing her own throat.

"So...so the Gentleman was strangled to death?"

"Ah-ah! Not quite, my dear...I am still not finished. The apprentice, of course, was nervous himself. He was only a simple workman, and he had never aspired to murder...so when the Gentleman fell, he was seized with panic! He must get out of there, he must hide the corpse! So he dragged the Gentleman's inert body to a small section of unfinished wall. Just a small section, nothing that he could not handle within the hour. He quickly shoved the unconscious man into the hole, not even bothering to check if he was dead."

Christine was biting the tips of her fingers. "And...and then?"

"And then...this wicked, abandoned man proceeded to build up the wall. Brick by brick, mortar upon mortar...he buried the Gentleman alive."

Christine went pale.

"The Gentleman had suffocated, but he had not died.

"When he woke, the first thing he noticed was a splitting headache. Ah! The constant sound of stones clicking and sliding about, it was enough to drive one mad! Then he opened his eyes...or had he? It seemed to make no difference...he was enveloped in complete and utter darkness! An icy bolt of fear shot through him. But wait! His bride! His bride was supposed to meet him! Where was she? He leapt from the ground, and instantly ran face first into the great stone blocks that made the wall.

He began beating against the bricks. Anything to break free from the smothering black silence! He wept, thinking of his love...where was she? Where had she gone? Was she trapped in the dark as well?

"His last rational thoughts were of his bride. The Gentleman soon perished, alone in the dark, driven beyond the brink of madness and despair."

Tears were falling freely from Christine's eyes.

"It's horrible...it's so _horrible_..."

"...I suppose it is," said the voice calmly.

"The poor man...to be driven mad, alone in the dark!"

"Yes, well," said the voice solemnly, "it is certainly not a fate I could wish on anyone. Yet you must remember, Christine...that was certainly not the end for the Gentleman! For upon the completion of the Opera Garnier, he found reason to stir from his ignominious grave. He had devoted the last of his life to its creation...now in death, he remains its guardian. No task is too small for the Ghost's interference...and if he does frighten others, it is only for the good of the Opera."

"Yet why does he stalk the cellars?" asked Christine.

"I think...you know the answer to that, my dear," he said gently.

"Yes," said Christine. "Of course. He is still searching for his bride."

"Precisely," said the voice.

For a brief moment, Christine was silent as she wiped the wet from her eyes.

"Tell me," she asked, "what happened to the girl?"

"Oh! She married the apprentice, of course."

_"What!"_

"But of course! The Gentleman had disappeared - he had obviously been unbalanced to begin with, especially since he had seen fit to reject her! She was perfectly happy to accept the attentions of the apprentice, and they married only a month later."

"That's horrible!" Christine growled, striking the floor with her fist. "Some women...some women are just... _ridiculous!"_

The voice had to stifle a laugh.

"It makes me furious!" Christine continued. "The injustice of it...and the way the ballet girls spread the most horrible lies about the Opera Ghost...how they tarnish him! He is not wicked! He was just cruelly and painfully hurt - "

"Now, Christine," the voice cut in sharply. "Do not be mislead. Remember that the Gentleman was driven mad before the end! He remains...well...a force to be reckoned with."

"You truly think he is dangerous, angel?"

"My dear, it is a fact."

Christine pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"And yet," said the voice in a whisper, "the Opera Ghost is not mindlessly evil. I cannot swear for the safety of others, but...I believe I can promise that he would never, _ever_ do you harm."

Christine shivered.

"Now," said the voice, with that calm authoritarianism she always associated with him, "you must rest. It is already past eleven o' clock."

"I suppose you are right," said Christine, though her hesitation was evident in her voice.

The angel sighed.

"I already regret revealing this much to you, Christine. It is a grim tale...shall you ever get to sleep?"

She thought for a moment.

"I will, if..."

"If what?"

Her cheeks turned pink.

"I will if you sing for me."

So Christine, nestled on her small cot bed, drifted off to sleep on the gentle strains of her beloved angel's voice.


	3. Chapter 3

The gray skies outside of the Opera Garnier had thickened into a storm. Sheets of rain clattered onto the roof, while every few minutes the hushed conversation of the cast was punctured by a shocking crash of thunder. Ballerinas huddled by the stagehands, while the members of the orchestra milled about, randomly plucking at strings and casting suspicious eyes toward the ceiling.

Christine was sitting in a corner, her eyes focused on the new score held open in her lap, even as her heart raced in anticipation of each clap of thunder.

That was when the screaming began.

...

The screams preceded a tangle of noise and limbs that came bursting through a shadowy door in the wings. It was the young boys of the ballet, a rowdy bunch, more often caught up in mischief than not. Yet these were not the normal shouts of raucous, unruly children. Their fear was palpable, and their eyes were wild and white.

 _"The ghost!"_ they screeched.

"He's after us!"

"He's going to kill us!"

They flew up the aisles, the youngest ones in tears as they fell behind their comrades. The ballerinas shrieked and clutched at each other, or dove into the strong arms of the stagehands. Orchestra members shouted and leapt up from their seats in a panic, and chaos ensued when a trombone was dropped on someone's toe. Screams and curses filled the air. Christine stared, frozen, as a riot began to form before her eyes.

_"Enough!"_

Silence fell. Every head turned to Madame Vernier, the cleaning lady, who was perched in the center of the stage, brandishing her mop like a spear.

"Boys," she growled, "stop this mayhem _at once_. We don't have time for this nonsense, and you've already messed up my freshly clean floorboards. Now get out of here before I flay your skins for cleaning rags!"

The ballet boys and the cleaning staff were natural enemies, and Madame Vernier's threats were not to be taken lightly.

Yet the oldest boy, Anton, turned to face her.

"Didn't you _hear?"_ he cried, his shoulders shaking. "The Opera Ghost is after us!"

Madame Vernier scowled.

"I _heard._ I imagine they heard all the way to Timbuktu. But I don't see him now, do you?" She held out her arms expressively, and the majority of the cast shot furtive looks around the auditorium. "Anyway, why should he bother with a useless troupe of monkeys like you?"

 _"Because we saw him!"_ squeaked another boy. "We definitely saw him! He was tall...tall as a giant! Stretched out like some great horrible monster - and his eyes burned yellow like a demon! He came closer, and closer, and he growled like a wolf-"

"His hands were claws!" said another. "And he reached for us-"

"His fingers were covered with blood!"

"Don't be stupid, Jacques, there wasn't any blood-"

"His eyes were like...like...hellfire!"

Several people crossed themselves, and even Madame Vernier discreetly touched the crucifix around her neck.

"And so we ran!" said Anton. "We ran as fast as we could! Even the furnace workers yelled at us - "

 _"The furnace workers!"_ shouted Madame Vernier. "Where on earth have you boys _been?"_

The boys were suddenly quiet, as they hung their heads and shuffled their feet.

_"Well?"_

"The...the third cellar, Madame," whispered Anton.

She threw her mop to the ground.

"I've never heard of anything so ridiculous! A group of stupid, witless boys tramping around in the third cellar? What could you have been _thinking?_ That place is dangerous for adults, let alone a bunch of heathens like you!"

"Tell us more about him!" said one of the ballerinas suddenly.

 _"No!"_ said Madame Vernier, with a look that made the ballerina shrivel. "That is enough! You brats are lucky to have escaped in one piece, and frankly, you don't deserve it! Anton, I can see that you were the ringleader - you will scrub the entire dormitory until it is spotless! The rest of you will go to bed without supper!"

Anton leapt to his feet in protest, and the other boys groaned and whined.

 _"Silence!"_ she said. "Unless you'd also like me to have you horsewhipped! It's no more than you deserve, and I know of several people who would be happy to give it!"

The following silence was remarkable.

...

The boys trumped off to their dormitory, and laughs and whispers instantly broke out among the cast members.

Christine observed it thoughtfully, until a sudden tug at her sleeve made her jump.

_"Sacre!"_

"Oh! I'm sorry, Miss Christine - "

"Why, Thomas!"

Thomas was one of the youngest boys, around age seven. He had mousy brown hair and a pale, sensitive face, though at the moment his cheeks were rather pink.

Christine frowned at him.

"Thomas," said Christine, "what were you thinking going down to the cellars? A smart boy like you? I would never have thought it!"

Thomas hung his head, his eyes clenched shut. Christine quickly observed red spreading across his nose, cheeks, and forehead, a sure sign of tears being held forcefully in check.

"Oh, Thomas," she clucked, gently cupping his face in her hands. "There is no need to be frightened now! Nothing bad has happened - well, except no dinner for you, though that's common enough -"

"Something _has_ happened!" cried Thomas, clutching her sleeves and pulling urgently, even as tears began to leak down his cheeks. Christine wrapped her arms around him, and he hid his face in her shoulder.

"What?" she whispered. "Tell me what has happened, petit."

"I...lost something," he whispered.

"You lost something?"

He nodded.

Christine waited patiently, but Thomas did not continue.

"Are you going to tell me what you lost?" she asked sweetly.

Thomas jerked his head up and cast a quick glance around them.

"It's... _a secret,"_ he whispered.

"Oh. Well, can you tell me anyway? Just whisper it to me," she said, in response to his obvious hesitation.

Thomas cupped his hand around her ear.

_"It's a doll."_

Christine blinked in surprise. "A doll?"

Thomas hissed fiercely through his teeth. " _Not so loud!_ It's not _my_ doll, you see...it's...it's for a...a friend."

Understanding dawned, and Christine, incurable romantic that she was, tried to suppress her grin.

"A _friend?_ Who?"

Thomas was looking resolutely at the floor.

"I - I can't tell you! You see, I was fixing it. The body tore, and my friend was very sad. I wanted to help, so I said I would fix it for them."

"I see," said Christine. "So, the problem is, you lost a doll that doesn't belong to you. Well that certainly is serious, cheri. Would you like me to help you find it? This is a large opera house, but - "

"You don't understand!" he cut in, his eyes staring desperately into hers. "I dropped it... _down there."_

Christine instantly blanched. "You don't mean...in the cellars? Just now?"

He nodded.

"I was just going to fix the doll, when Marcus and Francis ran up to me and I had to hide it in my pocket. They told me that all of the boys were going into the cellars to see the furnace men and to catch the opera ghost, and if I didn't come then everyone would laugh and call me a little sheep, so I _had_ to go!" Thomas quickly took a breath. "And then we went down into the cellars, down farther than _anyone_ has _ever_ been, and it was so scary and exciting, and then we saw... _him."_

"The Ghost?" whispered Christine.

"The Opera Ghost! Well, Anton did, and Jacques...I only saw a little bit of his cape, but I was at the back. It was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen!" he said, his eyes aglow. "We all ran back as fast as we could, so that the Opera Ghost wouldn't catch us and eat us and drink our blood - "

" _Really_ , Thomas! You mustn't say such things!"

"- and when we got back here, I felt in my pocket and the doll was _gone!_ It must have fallen out when we turned to run!" He took a deep, determined breath.

_"Miss Christine, I have to go back!"_

Christine took Thomas's hands firmly in hers.

"Thomas, I'm sorry. You know you can't go back there!"

 _"But I have to!_ If I don't go than Brigitte will hate me because I lost her doll and she'll never, ever speak to me again and my heart will break and my life will be _over!"_

Christine was a bit dumbstruck in the face of such passionate love.

"Thomas, you are not to go back there. No!" she said, cutting off his protests. "It is too dangerous! Opera Ghost or not, there are too many traps and dark corners in the third cellar! You could be seriously injured!"

"But Brigitte! She's...she's my one true love!"

Christine chewed her lip. She knew Brigitte. She was a quiet little girl with straight black hair...not a beauty by any means, but a gentle, sweet little soul. Just the sort that would entrust her doll to a kindhearted boy like Thomas.

She thought.

"Now be quiet, Thomas, and listen to me. You cannot go back down there, but...perhaps...someone else can..."

His eyes glowed.

"Miss Christine! You'll - you'll get it for me?"

Christine blinked. That was not at all what she had meant. She had been to the third floor once already, and she had no wish to repeat the experience. "Er, well, cheri, I was thinking more along the lines of one of the stagehands..."

"You can't ask them!" said Thomas, his eyes wide and panicked. "The stagehands will tell the ballerinas, and then _everybody_ will know I had a doll for Brigitte, and I'll be laughed at until I'm one hundred years old!"

Christine frowned. Thomas had a point. The stagehands loved to pass on news, especially when it could gain them points with the ballerinas. She could easily imagine whoever she asked to fetch the doll boasting about his good deed to the majority of the female population. Well, that was if she could get a stage hand to go to the cellars in the first place. She didn't know any of them very well, and she could just imagine what would happen if she asked them to track down a missing child's toy in the most sinister part of the opera house in their own spare time. They would laugh in her face!

Christine sighed heavily, and looked into Thomas's wide brown eyes.

It was, after all, for true love.

"Very well, Thomas...I will find it for you."

Thomas launched himself at her, hugging her tightly and whispering his thanks before running off to catch up with the other boys.

In the meantime, Christine wondered what on earth she had just gotten herself into.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hail Mary, full of grace...The Lord is with thee..._

Christine clutched at her rosary, the beads gently rattling with the trembling of her hands.

...

She had been brave in her dressing room, of course. She would need a lantern, and perhaps an extra wrap to feel protected. There was nothing to keep her from being quick, efficient, and successful on her errand.

_Ah, but what about the ghost?_

_The ghost..._

_vengeful...cruel..._

_lovelorn..._

"I...I have faith in my Angel!" she whispered to herself. "He said the Ghost would not harm me!"

_Please, be faithful to me, my Angel, my friend, my...my dear one._

With a final shiver, she set her chin determinedly and set off.

It was two in the morning, and the shadows threw themselves around her like cloaks, smothering her with wickedness and evil. A creak in a floorboard sounded off like a gunshot, and she jumped. She pulled her wrap close and continued.

She descended the staircases, one by one...a veritable rat's nest to those unfamiliar with the maze of rickety steps, trick ladders, and doors invisible in the shadows. Dust enveloped her nose and lungs, and the occasional misty cobweb would wrap across her face, making her spine crawl.

She descended into the cellars, her quiet, cautious footfalls no louder than a mouse - except for the odd, vicious plank which would screech in protest and send her heart hammering out of her chest.

The second cellar...the chamber of horrors, some called it. Giant statues of unearthly gods...masks of the devil the size of a wall, grinning puppets, life size dolls with dead faces...

She ran as fast as she could to the next cellar.

The third cellar.

She had visited it once before, on a cruel bet from one of the ballerinas. The furnace men would be down there...she would not be alone...yet the thought gave her no comfort. It seemed to her that their greatest pleasure was in flinging open the doors of their infernal machines at any who wandered too close...close enough to burn, to torture. She shuddered at the memory. Her skin had not been touched by the vicious tongues of flame, yet she had been close enough that her hand had been swollen, red, and peeling for two weeks. Perhaps...perhaps it was not their fault...she remembered that in the weeks after her "accident," the furnace men had been plagued with faulty machinery, many becoming gravely burned and crippled in the process.

She had finally approached the furnaces. She cringed as she heard the raucous laughter and cruel words exchanged among the men, many that made her blush fiercely. Perhaps she could simply sneak by them, if she kept to the shadows. She crept slowly, inch by inch, the pads of her feet making only the slightest of sounds...

...but it was not enough.

"Aha!" shouted a rough voice. "Come join us, petite! It is sweaty work down hear, perhaps a little mouse could comfort us!"

The men jeered and laughed.

"Why does the little mouse tremble so?" said another. "Is she scared of the cat? The cat that waits in the dark for his little morsel? A kiss, or two...is that not what we want? Or perhaps the little mouse has _other_ secrets to share..."

A huge man approached, a leer on his face and glistening with sweat. He tightly grabbed her wrist and began to lift up her skirts.

In a frenzy that Christine never guessed that she possessed, she shoved him with her free hand, catching him by surprise. She twisted out of his grasp, then ran from the furnace room and down a dark passage way.

She shivered in the dark, shame creeping through her heart as she tried to beat the feel of the man's hands off of her thighs. Faint sounds of jeering laughter echoed in her ears.

"Ah, Maurice! How could you let such a luscious tart out of your grasp! We wanted to see the show too!"

A tear ran down her cheek, and she brushed it away in anger.

She wandered the passage ways, each step becoming darker and more dangerous. She nearly tripped on a trap door, but saw it in time to press against the stone wall. The wall was cold and damp, and caused the shivers up her spine to begin rattling the bones in her chest.

It was then that she tripped over a loose stone. She fell, hard, the grating rocks tearing through the skin of her palms and the side of her face. She got up, slowly and painfully. She gently tried to brush away the grit lodged in her skin, but even the faintest touch stung like hot needles.

She began to wander blindly, the passages spinning off of each other like the web of a spider. She felt her heart beat fast, then faster...she choked on the impulse to scream...and stinging of her face and hands pounded fiercer every second.

With a strangling gasp, she fell to her knees.

"Angel," she whispered. "Angel, guide me, for I am lost without you. Please...save me...I beg of you!"

There was a sudden creak behind her.

For a moment she didn't move. She peered carefully over her shoulder, not knowing what she would meet. When some seconds passed and she wasn't attacked, eaten, or any other horrid thing, she rose slowly to her feet. With some surprise, she carefully peeked behind a tiny little corner that she had barely noticed. Hardly more than a nook.

And within the nook, there was a door.

She puzzled over the door for some time, then decided to press forward.

"Well," she sighed, "whatever this door may be it is certainly time to light the lantern." She absently felt her stinging cheek, forgetting that she also had a stinging palm. She hissed, cursing both her clumsiness and forgetfulness.

She had brought several matches with her, preparing for whatever circumstances she thought she might encounter. Yet with both of her hands were still bleeding and rocketing with pain, she found grasping a pointed end of wood extremely difficult.

"Ah," she hissed, dropping a match into a rivulet of water as it grazed the skin of her hand. _"Ah!"_ Louder this time, as a rough edge lodged into a particularly open tear. "Lord, help me!" she cried, panicked tears beginning to gather in her eyes.

There was one last match.

"Angel..Angel, if you are near...please let me light this lamp. I...I cannot bear the darkness! With all of the love and faith in my heart...I _beg_ you..."

The match lit.

Holding her breath, afraid of snuffing out the tiny flame, she lit the lamp.

She sat for a moment, watching as the small flame flickered with friendliness and warmth. She smiled at it, her brave little guide in the dark.

"Very well, little lamp. We have succeeded, thank God! Now, let's take a closer look at this door..."

It was then that she saw it, carved in fierce, even _violent_ letters across the wood...

FOURTH CELLAR.

Horror flooded over her like ice water.

Yet what else could she do?

She took a deep, shuddering breath. In spite of the wounds on her hands, she took her rosary from her neck and prayed.

_Hail Mary, full of grace...The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now..._

_...and at the hour of our death..._

_A- Amen!_


	5. Chapter 5

Oh, this couldn't be right!

She held the lantern high, the flame barely penetrating the dark. She hadn't been down this tunnel before - had she? It seemed to her that everything looked the same - black, unyielding stone.

I should have brought breadcrumbs, she thought viciously.

Though she had entered the fourth cellar, the doll was likely far off. The main entrance was a steep ramp near the furnace men, which was surely where Thomas had dropped it - however, her frightened detour into a side tunnel had made that option impossible. Surely there must be a way to approach from another side? Surely?

The flame inched smaller by the second. Christine could feel her heart beat wilder, thumping in her ears like a great tympani drum, surging liquid fear throughout her body until she felt sick with it.

She turned another corner, then another, the darkness thickening with each step. Her breath hissed as she desperately sucked air down, yet it simply vanished in her throat. Her head buzzed as if it was filled with quivering cotton.

She began to run.

The tunnels were twisting into curves now. Christine swept through them manically, her eyes blurring with tears; yet, with the lamp fading at every step, it hardly seemed to matter. The floor felt as if it was rising and falling beneath her - with sudden horror, she realized it was leading her downward. She spun dizzily, racing for another tunnel - oh, God! It led her down as well! She suddenly pitched forward, landing hard on her shoulder, yet her only thought was for the lamp. She crawled desperately towards the tiny light and clutched at the handle. The rusty metal cut her already scraped skin, but she simply leapt to her feet and spun around once more.

Circles. Only circles. Someone had once told her that Hell was a series of descending circles. She had scoffed at the time, but she believed them now.

The flame was only a glimmer now. Christine dragged her hand over the stone walls, hoping to feel her way upwards; yet each rise only brought her swiftly down again.

The flame was now a mere blue spark. It would be gone within a minute. She began to run again, in the vain hope that some escape would rise before her.

Her head slammed into something cold and hard. A dead end.

She beat furiously against the wall, wailing and screaming. She scratched at it; she struck it wildly with the lamp. Nothing changed.

For a moment she paused.

She wept freely now, and leaned against the unforgiving stone. She slid down it, sitting on the cold ground, and placed the lamp before her. There was nothing now to do but pray.

It was then, with the last dying spark, that she saw the Shadow.

...

At first, it simply swept past her, like a crow in the night, at the entrance to the tunnel. But then, it seemed to Christine that she heard soft footfalls, barely a whisper, slowly coming back.

Two golden lights hovered in the dark.

She stared at them, mesmerized, like a rabbit before a snake. The lights grew brighter. They were approaching.

They were eyes.

"You," Christine murmured. "You are the Ghost."

The eyes simply stared.

Christine knelt forward onto her hands and knees, her head bowed in supplication.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, Monsieur...Monsieur Ghost. I'm...I'm sorry. I am lost. I did not mean to trespass. I mean no harm, none at all. Please. Please forgive me."

For a moment, there was silence.

But then Christine shrieked. A cold, bony hand wrapped around her cheek. Frozen, thin, the fingers so, so long. Skeleton hands!

She backed quickly into the wall, pressing herself against it as if it could wrap around her, anything to save her from this dreadful apparition!

Yet the eyes lowered, sinking until they were level with hers. Once more she froze in silent wonder.

She felt the fingers brush gently against her hand, before wrapping themselves around her palm. For a moment they pressed over her bleeding cuts, and the fingertips began lightly exploring the scrapes. Yet it did not hurt. Indeed, the coolness of the dead hand brought Christine the relief she had so wished for.

The hand reached the base of her own fingers, and Christine felt a gentle tug. Did he wish for her to stand? She did, huffing as she clutched her knee and raised herself from the floor. For some reason, she was shamed by her ungraceful movement, and she felt her cheeks burn. Perhaps it was because the Ghost slid so smoothly and silently over the floor...she did not know.

Again, she felt the gentle tug. They lead her forward, away from the dreadful blocked tunnel. In the silent dark, the feel of the bony fingers was her only guide, and she followed them obediently, unsure what else to do.

Another cold hand pressed around her waist. Christine hissed in surprise, but soon found that the two hands were leading her through the uneven floors. She almost felt that she was floating.

But now! Surely her senses were deceiving her! It seemed as if...as if...she was _walking through walls!_ The stones seemed to yield under the hand's very touch, opening before them as if they were mere air.

Still the hands led her forward. Christine did not know what to do other than follow them. Where she was going, what her fate could be...she could not say. Yet soon, excitement flooded her. Her feet could not lie - surely they were climbing upwards?

Christine's eyes suddenly dazzled. The blazing fires of the furnace men! Yet they swiftly passed, and she was once more plunged into darkness.

Still they climbed upwards. Christine suddenly gasped as her foot struck a piece of wood...stairs! She felt both skeleton hands holding her waist, patiently guiding her from behind as she slowly felt for each step under her feet.

It was then that a door opened before her. She was in the second cellar.

"Oh!" she gasped. _"Oh!"_

Christine suddenly began laughing wildly, and she fell to the floor, pressing her hands against it as if she could not believe it was there. She was lost no longer! Her prayers had been answered...had saved her very _life!_

It was then that she remembered the Ghost. She turned around, eager to thank her savior, but before she could get the words out, the eyes blinked and were gone.


	6. Chapter 6

_"Ow!"_

"Oh, for heaven's sake, child. It's just a bit of medicine. Do you good."

The first thing Christine had done the next morning was to see Madame Vernier. She was generally considered to be the most useful person in an emergency, as good at cleaning wounds as she was at cleaning the opera.

"I'm not sure exactly what you were up to that caused such scrapes," she muttered, dabbing roughly at Christine's torn cheek. "You've practically flayed yourself."

"I told you!" said Christine. "I fell, in the hallway..."

Madame Vernier snorted.

"Keep it to yourself if you want, Christine," she said. "All I know is that there's some kind of mischief at the root of this. Don't think I haven't learned a thing or two in my old age!"

"Yes, Madame," Christine said quietly.

Madame Vernier clicked her tongue, and grabbed Christine by the shoulders. "Now don't look at me like that. You make me feel guilty." She began wrapping gauze around Christine's palms. "Anyway, you certainly fell somewhere. It's common knowledge that you're a clumsy little fool. That's why they kicked you out of the ballet, you know, and sent you to the chorus. All the way in back, too!"

"Yes."

Madame Vernier scowled. "You are too modest. I know you can sing better than you do, Christine. You just need to show a little pluck! Fight for yourself! It got Carlotta where she is," she snickered. "You _know_ it wasn't for her talent."

Christine tried in vain to hide the smile creeping over her mouth.

"There," said Madame Vernier, putting the final touches on Christine's cheek. "All done." She took a step backward to contemplate her work, stroking her chin in a meditative fashion. "Christine, between your meekness and the patchwork, you look like a lost sheep." She shrugged. "Nothing to do about the dressings, for now, but at least look people in the eye instead of the floor. Head straight, shoulders back. Buck up! Best cure in the world."

"Yes, Madame," Christine murmured.

Madame Vernier could only roll her eyes.

"Go on now, off with you!" she snapped. Christine turned to go, but she suddenly felt a hand on her arm.

"You are a good girl, Christine," muttered Madame Vernier. "Just...just try to take better care of yourself next time."

"Thank you," Christine smiled. "I will."

...

It had been a long day. The chorus members grinned as they glanced at Christine's dressings, and they poked each other in the ribs. The ballerinas didn't even bother to hide their snorts and snickers, and Carlotta laughed freely. Still, Christine said nothing, and she tried her best to follow Madame Vernier's advice.

 _Head up, shoulders back_ , she thought. _The best medicine in the world..._

She made it all through the rehearsal, yet there was no denying the weariness she felt as she entered her dressing room that evening. She looked into her mirror, and she quietly sighed.

_"CHRISTINE DAAE!"_

She fell to the floor, the thunderous voice booming in her head.

"WHAT IN HEAVEN'S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?" her angel roared. "TRAMPING BLINDLY AROUND IN THE FOURTH CELLAR? WHAT SORT OF BUSINESS COULD YOU _POSSIBLY_ HAVE DOWN THERE? WHAT WERE YOU _THINKING!?_ FOOLISH GIRL, DO YOU NOT KNOW THAT YOU COULD HAVE BEEN _KILLED!?_ LEGS BROKEN, SKULL CRACKED!? IDIOT CHILD! HOW _COULD_ YOU?

"I...forgive me angel!" she said, choking on her tears. "I will never do it again!"

"WHAT MADE YOU DO SO IN THE FIRST PLACE?"

Christine only wept in response, terrified of the bellowing voice that surrounded her.

"SPEAK!"

"I...I..."

It was no use. She trembled wildly, and her voice only came in cracked squeaks.

There was a deafening growl.

"There!" the Voice snapped. " _There!_ I will stop yelling, you cringing little thing! Now in God's name, sit up and _breathe!"_

She did so, slowly raising herself up onto her knees, her tears flowing silently down her face until they dripped off her chin. Her breath came in shuddering gasps, the only accompaniment the gruff sighing of her angel.

"Very well," he said after a time. "Are you ready to explain?"

"Oh, Oh angel," she managed to shake out. "I... I don't know how to tell you..."

"Do it anyway," he said viciously.

"It's...so embarrassing! All this trouble over a trifle..."

"Then _confess!"_

She nodded, her head down, her hands clasped over her knees.

"I was...looking for something."

_"What?"_

She sighed.

"A doll."

For a moment there was silence.

"A...a _doll!?_ What do you mean you were looking for a _doll!?"_

"Just that, angel. You know Thomas? One of the ballet boys?"

"Yes..." said the Voice hesitantly.

"It was his. Well, not really - he wanted to fix it for a little girl he knows. He lost it near the entrance to the fourth cellar."

The Voice puzzled this over.

"That may be so, Christine," he finally said, "but how could you _possibly_ have gotten tangled into this mess?"

"It...it was for true love!"

Silence now filled the little room.

"True...love?"

"Yes!" Christine shouted. "Thomas was depending on me! He was so set on fixing the doll, and he was _heartbroken_ when he lost it! He came to me for help, and the poor boy just knew I could fetch it for him - how could I have turned him down?"

"I see..." the angel whispered.

Christine once more bowed her head, praying silently for her angel's forgiveness.

"Tell me, Christine," he said softly. "Were you successful? Did you find what you were seeking?"

"No," she said heavily. "All of this trouble for nothing."

"Not nothing, dear child. Honoring love is, well...it's never nothing. Still," he said, his voice strict once more, "you are never to go down into the fourth cellar by yourself _again! Never!"_

"I understand, angel."

"Hmmph."

Christine risked looking up. "Do you, um...do you forgive me, angel?"

She heard a deep, frustrated sigh.

"I suppose I must, my little imp," said the Voice. "But really, you mustn't scare me like this! I am here to _teach_ you, not to run ragged all over the opera house _searching_ for you! Now tell me, my dear," he said. "Tell me...how did you find your way back?"

Christine bit her lip.

"Actually," she said, "It was...the Ghost."

 _"Really?"_ said the Voice in obvious surprise. "The Opera Ghost?"

"Yes," said Christine. "And you were right, angel. He did me no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact...he found me, and he must have taken pity on me, for he guided me all the way to the second cellar!"

"Quite the gentleman. I knew as much."

"Yes. I would still be lost if it were not for him."

For a moment, Christine's eyes shone, as if in a dream.

"Angel?" she asked. "My one regret is that I was unable to thank him. He turned away before I could."

"Well," said the Voice, "he is a shy one! He probably wished to return to the safety of his shadows. I'm sure he knows how grateful you are."

"Still," Christine murmured. "I wish I could find a way to thank him. He was so very kind."

There was a pause.

"Christine," said the Voice. "Christine, are you a very brave girl?"

"I...I don't think so, angel. Probably not."

"I beg to disagree, Christine - You faced darkness and danger for a good cause. Perhaps you could do so again."


	7. Chapter 7

Christine once more found herself wrapped in darkness, tip-toeing down a hallway under cover of night.

Her heart raced, but she grit her teeth and plunged ahead. _Head back, shoulders straight...head back, shoulders straight..._

She had discussed all of the details with her angel.

"The Ghost has many favorite haunts, Christine," he had mused. "The cellars, of course. Sometimes the rafters. Anywhere, really."

"Does this mean that you cannot tell me where I might find him?"

"Not precisely, my dear. Remember, I am the Angel of Music, not the Angel of Fortune Telling. Yet I believe...yes...I believe he favors one spot over any other."

Christine's breath quickened.

"You are familiar with the rumors of Box Five, little one?"

"Yes...yes! Of course! The Ghost sits there to watch over the performances! I had never believed it before."

"The Ghost will often sit there in the dead of night, as well, admiring the beauty of his creation. If you find him there, you must approach him with great caution, Christine. You will remember your rosary?"

"I am never without it, Angel," said Christine, clutching at her chest, where it rested safely under her clothing.

"Good girl. Be brave, sweet one, and do not fear the darkness, for I shall watch over you. Remember your manners, and enter Box Five slowly and quietly."

"I shall do as you say."

The Voice chuckled lightly, a purr of resonance that danced up and down Christine's spine.

"I know you shall," he said. Then he paused. "Christine...I know I can be...overwhelming at times. But never doubt how proud I am of you, or...or the love for you that is always in my heart."

Christine beamed.

"I love you too, Angel."

A peaceful silence reigned.

"Angel," Christine asked after a time, "when do you suggest that I meet the Ghost? I do not wish to wait in a dark hallway all through the night..."

"Oh...oh. Of course. Let me think," the Voice murmured. "You might perhaps try...yes. Try one o'clock, this very night. The chance is as great as it will ever be that you may find him there."

"Yes, Angel." Christine suddenly laughed. "Though no doubt I will need an extra cup of tea this evening! Two nights in a row of such late hours...I could not manage much longer."

The Voice laughed as well. "Do what you must, Christine. Tea is an excellent idea. Take care of yourself, little one!"

"Wish me luck, Angel."

"I do, dearest. With all of my heart."

...

Christine stood at the entrance to the boxes. She stared ahead, silent and unmoving.

_He will not harm you, Christine! Do you not remember?_

_Ah! It is one thing to hear the words from an angel, but to face it down in the pitch black? Well. It is difficult._

_Do you doubt the word of your angel?_

_Of course not! I'll go right now!_

She didn't.

Her spine shivered, her chest tingled. She somehow felt cold and hot at the same time.

A minute passed like this. Still Christine did not move.

Yet, with some surprise, Christine found that a new voice had entered her brain. Smooth, sinuous, gentle...she felt it unfold as quietly as a blooming rose.

 _Christine,_ she said to herself. _Christine, why do you wait here?_

_I am afraid!_

_That may be...yet, does not the Ghost deserve your thanks?_

_I...yes. He does._

_He helped you in your most desperate hour, Christine..._

_He did._

_How could you fear him?_

_I...I...he's a ghost..._

_That did not stop his hands from holding you in the darkness._

She swallowed.

 _Are you truly afraid of him, Christine?_ asked the deviant voice. _Or perhaps...what you are truly afraid of is yourself?_

_Hush! That is enough of that!_

Yet the seed had been planted, and her cheeks burned.

_Approach him, Christine. Remember that you can be brave. For your angel...and for the Ghost._

Christine, at last, stepped forward.

...

The door to Box Five stood in front of her.

_My angel told me to remember my manners...should I knock? Or would the Ghost spirit away if I did?_

She debated this question for at least a minute. Yet in the end, she decided to knock. It seemed the most mannerly thing to do.

Her knuckles rapped against the wooden door, the sound hardly more than a mouse's whisper. Yet in her heightened state, Christine felt lightening thrill through her veins, and she nearly bolted.

Yet, with a trembling hand, she turned the doorknob.

And there he was.

...

His outline was almost entirely concealed by the surrounding darkness, but Christine's eyes were just sharp enough to see him. He was leaning back in a chair, his figure heavily cloaked, a hat pulled low over his face. One arm draped casually over a neighboring seat, and he watched the empty stage before him as if it was filled with wonders.

Christine couldn't breath.

After a long minute, Christine forced herself to speak. "Monsieur...Monsieur Ghost?" she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I...I am sorry to intrude on you again."

The head turned, ever so slightly, in her direction.

"Um," she continued. "My name is Daae. Christine Daae. You saved me last night, in the...the fourth cellar."

The head now turned to face her, and once more Christine found herself mesmerized by the golden eyes. She stared at them, her breath coming heavily, until a sudden shudder brought her back to her errand.

She took a step forward.

"I am here to thank you, Monsieur. I wished to do so last night, but you disappeared before I could. I know that...that you do not like to be bothered. But I truly wanted you to know. You saved my life. I am eternally grateful for your kindness, and...and I am forever in your debt."

The shadow rose slowly, his piercing eyes ever locked on hers.

"That...that is all I wanted to say, Monsieur. I will no longer take up your time. But, thank you. Thank you, with all of my heart."

She turned swiftly, eager to escape to the safety of her room, but she was halted by the feel of long, cold fingers wrapping tightly around her wrist. The hand pulled her back, all too close to their owner. She slowly turned to face him, and his gold eyes bored down on her like a spell. She stared into their depths, feeling herself leaving her body, raising into the shining light. The beautiful, beautiful light...

With a shock, Christine felt something soft thrust into her arms.

She turned it over in her hands, feeling a rich, silken fabric wrapped over rough canvas. Something smooth now...buttons? Then a soft ring of curls, tied with a bow...

_The doll!_

"Monsieur!" she gasped. "Monsieur! This is the doll! Thomas's doll! You found it?"

The Ghost nodded, with a nearly imperceptible tilt of his head. Christine smiled, and then laughed out loud.

"Oh, but this is _wonderful!_ I cannot begin to say how wonderful this is! Oh, Thomas will be so _happy_..."

Her eyes misted, and she brushed them away with the edge of her sleeve.

"I will leave now, Monsieur. I...I truly don't know how to thank you!"

She paused, and it was then that the impulse struck.

She leaned towards the Ghost, bent her head forward, and kissed him.

It was swift, hardly more than a second, only the gentlest brush against his cheek. Yet Christine's heart leapt. His skin was cold, as cold as the rest of him, cold and smooth and wonderful...

She spun away, blushing furiously, and quickly fled into the darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

_"Oh, Miss Christine!"_

Thomas turned the doll over in his hands, his eyes as wide as saucepans with wonder.

"It's _amazing!_ Brigitte said she had made it from scraps in the costume rooms - it was never as nice as _this!"_

And indeed, the doll was exquisite. The canvas body remained, but it was now clothed in a dress fit for a princess. It was cut from raw, ruby silk - who knew how expensive it was? Not only that, but it was hemmed in golden thread, gracefully patterned into sweetly curling vines. The neckline was adorned with impossibly tiny glass beads, glowing with the same crimson hue as the dress. The original tear was mended with truly delicate stitching, the thread somehow enhancing the plain canvas body. The plaster face had been cleaned and polished, the curling hair softened and shining.

She had become a jewel among dolls.

Christine delicately fingered the hem, beholding this work of art with the same entranced gaze as Thomas. Lovely, lovely...surely a work of magic.

_Christine, Christine...what else would you expect from a ghost?_

Her heart beat just a little faster at the thought.

...

"Christine, my dear, you look like the cat that has gotten the cream."

Indeed she did, floating into her dressing room with a beaming smile.

"Oh, my angel...I've had the most wonderful day!"

"Have you?"

"Oh, yes! I visited the Ghost, last night, just as you instructed...I was able to thank him, and then he returned Thomas's doll. Angel, it was not only repaired, but he had transformed it into the most exquisite work of art I have ever seen!"

"I hope this does not mean that you have become distracted by material possessions, Christine," the Voice laughed gently.

Christine blushed.

"I admit that I was captivated by it...oh, Angel, if you could have seen it! It is surely no sin to appreciate true beauty! And there was something else besides..."

"Oh?"

"You see," she smiled, "I kept a close eye on Thomas today, and I was able to spot him returning the doll to Brigitte. I have never seen a child so happy! Poor little Brigitte, she has had nothing beautiful in her entire life...you should have seen her face! She was awestruck! And then, oh! She did the sweetest thing...she kissed Thomas on the cheek! Of course the dear girl was so embarrassed afterwards that she ran away, but Thomas was floating on clouds for hours. It was the dearest thing in the world."

"I do not blame Thomas for his bliss. A kiss on the cheek is one of the finest thanks in the world."

"You think so, Angel?"

"My darling," he whispered. "I know so."

...

It was night. Christine was curled upon her cot, floating gently in the half-state between sleep and wakefulness. A small smile graced her lips as she dreamed in the darkness.

She dreamed of light. A holy, golden light that poured down from the heavens, saturating her body in glory.

A shadow snuck in from the edges of her vision, wrapping itself sinuously around the light. Yet the shadow was not frightening. Indeed, it was soft and yielding - Christine felt that she could sink into it like fine velvet.

The light and the shadow danced, merging into one another in a graceful, entrancing balance. They were separate, yet together. One could not exist without the other.

She thought of the moon. The light side, the dark side, each necessary to create the wonderful mass that decorated the night sky.

The moon turned into a coin, shining and golden. The coin had two sides, light and dark, depending on how you held it...but could you not buy sheet music with it, whose notes carried songs that entranced and delighted?

Light and dark. Dark and light.

Her angel and her Ghost.

Each so necessary...each so essential to her happiness.

Each so deserving of her love.

It seemed to her that she felt a weight upon her cot. Fingers gently combed through her hair. Father used to do that...

And then she heard words...words whispered into her mind, light as a feather in the wind.

"Christine," they breathed. "Oh, my darling...my precious, precious angel! Christine...jewel of my heart...song of my soul! I love you so, with every fiber of my being I love you so! It is my turn to thank you now...I wish to thank you for making me the happiest I've ever been, in my entire, lonely life. Oh, sweet one... _thank_ you..."

She felt the gentlest sensation on her cheek.

It was cold...as cold as the first welcome brush of snow in winter. It was smooth, smooth like porcelain, smooth as the bracing rivers she used to bathe in as a child...

And she smiled.

...

The Shadow lingered at her bedside, longing to stay, but afraid to linger. He stood, and with one last, yearning glance at his beloved, he swept his cloak around him and disappeared into the night.


End file.
